Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 103010 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103010 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Then I showered, dressed…wished I were in bed. There really was no point—I knew I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep—and thankfully, I had the next few days off. I was only on call as a trauma surgeon six days a month, but those days were both brutal and needed. Strangely, they centered me, made me feel more human and gave me a connection to others, however brief, that I so rarely felt otherwise.
Even though I didn’t need to, I went in to the hospital and did some paperwork. Before I knew it, the day had passed, and I sat back in my chair and groaned, knowing I still had to meet with David that night.
But I knew I would go because I had given my word, and when I said I would do something, I always did. I hated lies and people who spun them.
I guess there was also the fact that he was my friend.
I went home and changed into black slacks and a button-up shirt, then made the drive to a restaurant he wanted to try in downtown LA.
“Good evening, sir,” the valet said when I pulled up in front of the building and got out.
I had to admit, the honorific sent a shiver down my spine. It had been too long since I’d played with anyone, and I was in desperate need of the kind of relief it brought me. It was likely why I was so edgy and had trouble sleeping.
“Good evening,” I replied as he took the keys.
When I stepped into the restaurant, I saw David’s dark hair at a round table in the corner. The lighting was dim, candles at each table. It was a bit pretentious for me, but I’d indulge him.
“Can I help you, sir?” the hostess asked.
“I see my party, thank you.”
She smiled as I made my way toward David, who rose to hug me. “You look tired.”
“You know that’s a way of telling someone they look like shit, right?”
David smiled, and we sat. “Would you rather I blow smoke up your ass?” he asked, and no, I wouldn’t.
“Long week at work. That’s all. How are you?”
“Fine. Hungry. You’re late. That’s not like you.”
I frowned. “Five minutes.”
“Still not like you.”
He was right, but I shook him off. David and I met in med school, and we’d played together a few times over the years. He was primarily a Dom, but he very rarely switched for the right man. Apparently, that had been me, though we hadn’t had a scene in a few years. David was easy in that I knew he would never want more from me, because I couldn’t give him what he truly desired, which was submission.
“Good evening. Can I get you…” The waiter’s voice trailed off, and I looked up at him. He was young, eighteen or so, and had these expressive blue eyes that were wide and intense as they held on to mine. He looked slightly pale, his brow peppered with sweat, but even though he was looking at me as if he’d seen a ghost, I didn’t think that was what made him stare at me the way he did. “A, um…drink. Would you like a drink?”
He had this sort of button nose. His hair was blond, his jaw cut like a model, though he still had a baby face. He was…gorgeous. Very young, but gorgeous. “A glass of pinot noir, please,” I replied but didn’t turn away. I watched him, waited for his eyes to leave mine first, but they didn’t. He just stood there as though he didn’t know what to do, his plump lips parted slightly, and if we were in a different situation, I would wonder what it would be like to push my cock between them. To fuck his throat until tears ran from his eyes, then hold him and soothe him the only way I knew how.
“The same for me, please,” David said, which seemed to snap—my eyes darted to his name tag—Finley—from his trance.
“Yes…yes, I’ll be right back.” And he scurried away.
“Jesus, what in the hell was that? Have you fucked him?” David asked, and I rolled my eyes.
“No. I would remember him.”
“He’s beautiful.”
“Young,” I added.
“But legal. He has to be eighteen if he’s serving alcohol.”
“Christ, David. Also, he looked like he might be ill.”
“He looked at you like he wanted to jump your bones. And I hope he isn’t sick. He shouldn’t be here if he is.”
He was right, of course, but that wasn’t my concern. Worry worked its way through my veins. Did he have no one to care for him? It wouldn’t be the first thought of most people. He was an adult, so he should be able to care for himself, and likely could. Yet that familiar instinct rose to the surface, to protect and cherish…after some delicious torture, of course. I wanted to fix and control the things I could. But really, how could I control a random boy at a restaurant?